


among the clouds

by tarinumenesse



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Adventure, Adventure & Romance, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Everybody Lives, F/M, Mentioned Blue Lions Students (Fire Emblem), Minor Dorothea Arnault/Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Minor Violence, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 10:13:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29151792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarinumenesse/pseuds/tarinumenesse
Summary: Ingrid has been raised with a single purpose in life: to secure her family’s future by marrying a man of good standing. A man like Lord Glenn Fraldarius. Certainlynotone like Lord Sylvain Jose Gautier, the Count of Beaumont. But the very night she begins the journey towards fulfilling her destiny, an airship captain from Derdriu offers her the opportunity to chase an entirely different one, and perhaps to figure out the future she wants for herself.
Relationships: Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 5
Kudos: 21
Collections: The Three Houses AU Bang





	among the clouds

**Author's Note:**

> This is my contribution to the Three Houses AU Bang, because Ingrid is a Steampunk heroine and no one can convince me otherwise. I worked with the fantastic LTNLitten9—please make sure to check out their [comic here](https://twitter.com/LTNlitten9/status/1356521830715068416?s=20)!

_~A Doting Parent~_

Ingrid and her father, Count Simon Marius Galatea, both scrambled for something to hold onto as their carriage once again jolted to a stop. The automobile’s steam engine hissed with effort and their driver cursed. For a tense moment, Ingrid held tight to the edge of her seat, while her father braced himself against the carriage wall. When it was clear that they were not going to start moving again, Ingrid’s father retrieved his pocket watch with his free hand and glanced at the face. He sighed.

“Thirty minutes since we reached the driveway,” he announced, slipping the timepiece back into the dedicated pocket in his waistcoat.

“Balls at Kyphon House are always large,” Ingrid said. “Lord Fraldarius mentioned that they expect in excess of one hundred and fifty people tonight.”

Her father, a man of books and solitude, blanched. Ingrid released her grip on the carriage seat and laid her hand over his.

“Would you rather go home?” she asked. “I do not think Duke Fraldarius would blame you. He knows how you despise a crush.”

Her father shook his head emphatically. “No, no, we wrote our attendance. Besides, it would be a shame to cry off when we have put so much effort into our preparations.”

Ingrid forced a smile and leaned back in her seat. By effort, her father meant money. The dress she wore was undoubtedly stunning. Of pale green and blue silk, it featured lace sleeves and an apron skirt gathered at the bustle to reveal an underskirt printed with her family’s Crest. But such opulence came at a high cost: ten yards of satin and twelve of lace. With the added cost of the ribbons and fresh flowers in her hair, Ingrid was wearing a small fortune. Thank the goddess her jewels—a pale sapphire pendant that she had looped through a ribbon to tie around her neck and its matching silver bracelet—were survivors of her grandfather’s negligence with the family heirlooms.

“And on that matter,” her father continued, “forgive my curiosity, Ingrid, but do you have particular expectations of this evening?”

“None more than usual, father,” Ingrid replied carefully, folding her hands in her lap.

Her father glanced out the window. “I ask because I noticed Lord Fraldarius has been paying you particular attentions these past weeks,” he said.

Glenn Achille Fraldarius, the elder son of the present Duke Fraldarius, though not the heir due to his lack of a Crest. Nonetheless, he possessed a high position in society, and all the wealth and trappings that came with the Fraldarius name.

Ingrid tapped her fan against her leg as the carriage inched forward, rattling its occupants.

“What would your reaction be if he were to make me an offer?” she asked.

“I would say that he is a respectable young man who will possess a fortune grand enough to keep you in sublime comfort for the rest of your life,” he said, casting his eyes towards the floor as he caught the leather grip above the door against the movement of the carriage. “Moreover, an alliance with a member of the Fraldarius family would secure both your brother’s and your nephew’s futures as Count Galatea.”

He looked back at Ingrid.

“However, if you possess any good reason to hesitate,” he added, “know that I would support you in your refusal, whatever it may cost us.”

Ingrid smiled, this time genuinely. Her father cleared his throat and stared back out the window. 

“I am confident in Lord Fraldarius’s good character,” Ingrid said, hoping to ease her father’s mind. “He is known for his courage, loyalty and integrity. I believe that he would make a worthy husband.”

“However?”

Ingrid wrapped both hands around her fan, a focused action to contain the swell of affection she felt for her father. With passable beauty, a respected name and a Crest, Ingrid had been pinned from a young age as the last hope for the restoration of her family’s fortunes. She had received dozens of proposals from men titled, moneyed, both and neither. Upon her debut, many of society’s mamas had expected her to be off the market within a month. And if her father had been less kind, perhaps that would have been the case. But to the bafflement of those society mamas, the widowed Count Galatea had refused to surrender his daughter to someone she did not like or respect. She was more fortunate than she deserved.

“However, he has not made me an offer,” Ingrid said.

“And that is all that holds you back?”

Ingrid toyed with the pendant at her throat. “I do not know, father. I like Lord Fraldarius better than the others.”

Ingrid’s father sat forward and took one of her hands between his.

“Then this is the last thing I will say on the matter,” he said. “Consider your mind carefully. The future of the county need not come at the cost of your happiness.”

Ingrid kissed her father’s cheek.

“Thank you, papa.”

She was thrown into her father’s arms as the carriage whistled to a halt again. They had only a moment to right themselves before the door latch clicked and a footman bowed to them, the blaze of scores of artificial lights reflecting off the polished buttons of his uniform.

“At last!” Ingrid’s father exclaimed.

He exited the carriage before turning back to assist Ingrid. She leaned her weight against his hand as she descended, lifting her skirt just enough to see her slippered foot to the carriage step. When she was safely on the ground, the footman closed the carriage door and banged on it to signal the driver to move along, following after the line of other emptied steam engines that circled around the driveway.

Taking her father’s arm, Ingrid looked up to behold Kyphon Hall in its festive splendour. It was a stately building dated to the Three Princes era, with some renovations to match more modern tastes. Every one of the fourteen arched windows on the facade glowed gold, promising warmth and frivolity within. The grounds were just as bright, with lanterns guiding the way up the front pathway to the entrance. Under the colonnade, directly beside the door, was an automatic steam piano, greeting guests with popular opera songs.

“Say what you like, the duchess always delivers a spectacle,” Ingrid’s father commented.

A rumble echoed his statement. Ingrid looked up into the sky to see an airship passing overhead. Its small, round windows were large and bright against the inky sky, suggesting the presence of voyeurs. It wasn’t unheard of for wealthier members of the middle class to commission an airship to fly over the most exclusive of noble parties, hoping for a glimpse of the splendor.

“What Miss Dominic said about the Prince Dimitri attending must be true,” Ingrid said.

Her father chuckled.

“Crown prince or no, there are few people in this city who would turn down an invitation to Kyphon Hall. Come, let us proceed inside before all the good, corner chairs are taken.”

The lord and lady of the house stood just inside the front door: the duchess in a stunning gown of purple silk and the duke in a black evening suit. Ingrid held in a despondent sigh as she curtsied to Her Grace. Despite her position as one of the matrons of society, Duchess Fraldarius was more lovely than any of the young women she invited across her threshold, care of her lucious black curls, her sparkling grey eyes and a perfect smattering of freckles on otherwise flawless skin.

Fortunately, the duchess’s inner beauty matched the outer. As soon as Ingrid completed her bow, Duchess Fraldarius took her arm and led her aside. She spread her fan with a flourish, lifting it just so to hide her lips, and fixed her discerning gaze on Ingrid.

“I am so glad you have come, Miss Galatea,” she said. “My son is most eager to see you.”

Ingrid’s stomach twisted tighter than an engine’s springs. There was no need to enquire to which son Her Grace referred. Although it was well known throughout society that Ingrid was close with Felix—Lord Conand in this company, his title as the heir of the Fraldarius dukedom—he would never go looking for her at a social event.

“I am honoured, Your Grace,” Ingrid murmured.

Duchess Fraldarius giggled. “There is no need for such courtesies between us, my dear. I have some inkling of the particular reason my son wishes to speak with you. Shall I give you a clue? It is not to ask a dance.”

With that, Ingrid’s stomach uncoiled fast enough to make her nauseous. However, she found a smile and put it in place, at the same moment the duke called out, “My dear!”

Duchess Fraldarius closed her fan and waved it at him impatiently.

“A moment,” she said, before leaning towards Ingrid conspiratorially. “Last I saw my son he was dancing with Miss Martritz. Perhaps you should seek him out in the ballroom?”

“Your Grace,” Ingrid demurred as the duchess glided away, trading places with Ingrid’s father.

“The duke favours you,” he said as he joined her. “If there had not been more guests after me I suspect he would have whisked me away to discuss the papers.”

Ingrid quickly took his arm and turned them towards the party.

“Shall we find you a place to sit?” she said.

_~An Opera Singer~_

After procuring her father a seat with some friends at one of the card tables, Ingrid wandered through the house towards the ballroom, secure in the knowledge that he would be occupied for some hours to come. As she wove between the crowds of people, she sought out someone, anyone, to speak to. She recognised many, but properly knew only a few—debutantes, long since engaged; lords who had led her to the dancefloor; and, of course, the society mamas. And none of those were people with whom she wished to start a conversation. It wasn’t until she reached the ballroom itself that she saw someone whose company she enjoyed, and then, it wasn’t someone of whom her father would approve.

Dorothea Arnault was holding court in the far corner of the ballroom, all of the men and women around her clearly infatuated. Truthfully, there were few in Faerghan society who were not enamoured of the Adrestian opera singer. She had flown in on the regular from Enbarr two months earlier, capturing the heart of Lord Rowe before the ship touched the ground, and then proceeded to take the rest of Fhirdiad by storm. Ingrid’s father was one of the small number of people who had not been won by her unmatched beauty and pure, enchanting voice.

As for Ingrid, she had made Dorothea’s acquaintance at a luncheon at House Gautier. It was an entirely suitable place to meet an unsuitable friend; Sylvain, or rather, the Lord Beaumont, heir to the Gautier title, enjoyed inviting society’s darlings to his mother’s events against her wishes. Ingrid very rarely had anything in common with his chosen guests, but Dorothea was an exception. Within minutes of striking up a conversation with her, she recognised a kindred spirit, one constrained by dictates beyond her control but nonetheless fighting against them. In the end they had spent enough time together that Sylvain had complained that had he known they would become such fast friends, he wouldn’t have invited Ingrid so as to have more of the lovely singer’s attention.

When Dorothea saw Ingrid, she rapidly extracted herself from amongst her admirers and caught Ingrid’s arm. The rejected men and women glared as Dorothea swept Ingrid away to a far corner.

“I do not know how you endure these pompous asses,” she said, snapping her fan open and waving it furiously. “They are positively nauseating.”

“You do not owe them anything,” Ingrid replied. “You need not bother with them.”

“Oh, but I must.” Dorothea faced her, blocking advances from would-be dance partners. “The consequences of ignoring any one of them are too dire. They might accuse me of being quite the diva, which is something I cannot afford. Or worse…”

Her gaze darted across the room. Ingrid followed it to see Felix on the opposite side of the room, ignoring the row of wallflowers sighing in his direction. His eyes were narrowed and fixed on Dorothea. The two of them had met at the same Gautier luncheon, and although Ingrid had suspected something between them, she hadn’t predicted feelings intense enough to elicit such a glare.

“You like him more than I realised,” Ingrid said, turning back. “Have you met often since the luncheon?”

Dorothea sighed. “He attends my salon occasionally. We can manage little more than that. He is the son of a duke and I am an opera singer.”

Ingrid shook her head. “Why should that be an impediment? Baron Dominic’s wife was a singer.”

“Yes, but barons hold little consequence.”

“I can think of a few who would beg to differ.”

Dorothea laughed. “They may quarrel all they wish; it is true. If Felix were a mere baron, I would be the happiest woman alive. But I cannot ask him to give up all of this for my sake.”

Dorothea gestured around the room. Ingrid caught her hand and squeezed it. With a smile, Dorothea closed her fan and tapped Ingrid on the shoulder with it.

“Nevermind that,” she said. “I have you, dearest, which is more than enough. Now, what is the sum of it?”

“The sum of what?” Ingrid asked.

Dorothea smiled slyly. “Do not play ignorant, my dear. I know that Lord Fraldarius intends to propose to you tonight.”

Ingrid’s cheeks began to burn. She fanned herself, hoping against hope that Dorothea would think her colour was due to the heat in the room and not the situation in which she was about to find herself.

“If he holds any such intentions I am unaware of them,” she said.

“Then I am left to presume he has not yet located you. Or you him. Felix told me the matter was for all purposes settled.”

Ingrid cast a sharp look across the ballroom. That, at least, caused her supposedly-trustworthy friend to turn away.

“Do not be angry with him, dearest,” Dorothea said, taking her hand. “I weaselled it out of him.”

“What did he say?” Ingrid asked, curious in spite of herself.

“He said that Lord Fraldarius was determined. He has spoken with his father and received his support. All that is left is to ask you.”

Ingrid felt suddenly light-headed. “That is what he said?”

Dorothea raised an eyebrow. “That is what Felix said Lord Fraldarius said.” She hesitated, then added slowly, “Is that not what you were hoping for?”

“Of course,” Ingrid said, nodding. “It will make my father happy.”

“But will it make you happy?”

As though he was summoned by their conversation, Lord Fraldarius appeared in the far entrance of the ballroom. He was a striking figure in any room, challenging even the crown prince for attention when they were together. Standing to a height exceeding his father’s achievement, with a round face and pleasant features, and those famous blue eyes, he was also extremely handsome. He seemed to glow in the golden light of the ballroom. Dozens of heads turned in his direction, eager to catch his gaze.

But he looked only to Ingrid.

“I do think highly of him,” she said, her stomach doing a nosedive through the floor when Lord Fraldarius struck out across the ballroom towards them.

“But can that make you happy?” Dorothea asked.

Ingrid took a deep breath. “I believe it can.”

Dorothea reached out and tugged a curl free from the flowers in Ingrid’s hair. With great care, she positioned it to frame Ingrid’s face.

“Then you are fortunate, dearest,” she said, speaking quietly as Lord Fraldarius drew closer. “You can have the entire package. Everything you could desire: a handsome husband, security, friendship. Even love. I envy you.”

“You can have those things too,” Ingrid whispered.

“I can hope for little more than being the mistress of the man I love and sending him home to his dull wife every evening.”

“Thea!”

“Fear not,” Dorothea laughed. “I am as capable of taking my future in my hands as you. But I am glad yours is made easier by having caught the attention of a worthy and suitable man.” She made a final adjustment to the curl and took her hand back. “Are you excited?”

“It’s only a marriage proposal,” Ingrid said, trying to keep her voice steady.

“Goddess, dearest, just because you have an excess of them does not mean that you should take them so lightly.”

With that, Dorothea spun neatly on her heel just in time to curtsy to Lord Fraldarius.

_~A Future Duke~_

“Lady Ingrid. Miss Arnault,” Lord Fraldarius greeted as he performed a bow in response. Ingrid belatedly dropped into her own under Dorothea’s amused grin.

“What a pleasure to see you again, my lord,” Dorothea said, holding out her hand. “I am honoured to have been included in the invitation to such an event.”

Lord Fraldarius took her hand and kissed the back of it.

“My brother would not have it otherwise,” he said.

“Is that so?” Dorothea demurred, taking a step backwards and clearing his pathway to Ingrid. 

Suddenly faced with Lord Fraldarius, Ingrid’s mind began to race. Was her dress sitting straight? Was her hair presentable? _It’s just Glenn_ , she scolded herself as she clenched her fan, crushing the sticks together (it would be a miracle if she didn’t snap one before the night’s end). She had known him since she was a child. She knew him almost as well as any of her other friends: what food he liked (roast duck) and disliked (jelly); his preferred form of exercise (fencing); the name of his horse (Windwalker); the drink he took after supper (port. Always port).

_It’s only Glenn._

_A suitor._

Lord Fraldarius’s look was questioning as he took Ingrid’s hand.

“Are you well?” he asked softly before kissing the back of her glove.

“Yes, quite,” Ingrid replied. Too quickly. Lord Fraldarius’s eyebrow rose.

“Excuse me, Miss Arnault,” he said, glancing at Dorothea, “but may I steal Lady Ingrid away for a private word?”

“Of course, my lord,” Dorothea said sweetly. “Do not stand on ceremony with me.”

“I thank you, Miss Arnault.”

Lord Fraldarius offered Ingrid his arm. Within moments she was being swept across the ballroom, with only a moment to catch Dorothea’s encouraging smile.

“Are you certain you are well?” he asked as they exited to the gardens behind the house.

“I am,” Ingrid insisted, looking around; for what, she knew not. “The gardens look beautiful.”

“I suppose they do.”

And they did. The duchess had designed the gardens of Kyphon Hall for entertaining. They were maze-like with a series of secluded spots lit by gas lamps suitable for private conversations. More steam pianos were set up throughout, their mechanical melodies making it difficult to ascertain the topics of conversation between the parties they passed. Ingrid found herself fascinated by one of them as they passed it, the depression of the keys, the belching steam, the way in which the song didn’t sound quite right. Technology was an amazing thing, but, she supposed, there were always going to be certain aspects of life that were not improved by its progress.

“You’re very quiet tonight.”

Ingrid spun to look at Glenn. At some point she had drifted away from him and now he stood several paces behind her. He looked even more handsome under the gas lamps. She was fortunate. Very fortunate.

“Quieter than usual,” he continued.

“I…” Ingrid trailed off, unsure of what to say. Glenn laughed.

“I understand,” he said. “I did not think I would be this nervous myself, but I am.”

Still at a loss, Ingrid settled for taking a seat on a nearby bench. Glenn sat beside her, wrapping his fingers around the wooden seat, before reaching out and placing his hand on top of hers. Ingrid fought the urge to jump up and run away by meeting his eyes.

“Ingrid,” he said, “I do not think you are ignorant of why I wanted to speak with you. My behaviour the last few weeks cannot have gone unnoticed.”

Ingrid nodded. “It has not.”

“Then I’d best come out and finally say it. Ingrid, will you do me the great honour of becoming my wife?”

Ingrid had not been sure what she would feel when Glenn asked her The Question. She had been certain that it would not be the same as her previous experiences: awkward, embarrassing, mortifying in some cases. And it wasn’t. But she had thought she would feel something. Anything at all. Eagerness, or happiness, or even just interest. But she searched her soul and found nothing.

“Just like that?” she said.

Glenn’s face fell. He released her hand and clasped his together in his lap.

“Just like that,” he repeated. “Should I say more?”

Horrified at herself, Ingrid shook her head furiously. “No! No, it is not necessary. We both know what our parents expect of us.”

Glenn’s jaw tightened. “Our parents?”

“I mean…”

“If you do say yes, Ingrid,” Glenn interpreted, “I hope it is for reasons other than this being what our parents expect of us.”

“Of course, Glenn! I do. I mean, it is.”

“Then you are saying yes?”

“I…”

Glenn’s expression was guarded. Ready to be rejected. Surely he wasn’t so invested in the engagement as to be disappointed if Ingrid said no?

Was he?

Could she chance his disappointment?

Ingrid took a deep breath and looked down at her hands.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes. I am.”

Glenn released an enormous sigh. He reached out and took her hand again, this time pressing it between his. Ingrid fixed a smile on her face as she turned back to him.

“I’ll take good care of you, I promise,” he said. “Truly.”

Ingrid nodded. Glenn returned it shyly, casting his eyes down to their feet.

“Would you like to return to the party?” he asked.

Ingrid blinked at him.“Yes, of course,” she said. “Let us return.”

_~An Incorrigible Dandy~_

Glenn led Ingrid back towards the ballroom with her hand tucked in the crook of his elbow. It was more intimate than the way they had walked before, when Ingrid had placed her hand loosely on his forearm. A clear signal to anyone around them of their new status: no longer merely courting, but engaged.

_Engaged._ Bar the exchange of tokens and the formal letters they must write to each other’s families. But Ingrid had always considered her word to be irrevocable once given, and so with her answer she had felt the binding contract between them, the twisting of their fates.

Yet it didn’t feel right.

The scene that had just occurred, though long anticipated, weighed heavy on her. She had thought that once the decision was made, everything would fall into place. That it would all make sense. Shouldn’t she feel confident, sure, in the knowledge that her future was secured? That her whole family’s future was secured? That she had achieved something?

But she had never felt less certain about anything in her entire life. And though she thought that was something she could share with Glenn, she didn’t know how to begin.

It all felt even more wrong when they entered the ballroom and she heard a voice as familiar as her own father’s.

“Fraldarius!”

She flinched. There was only one person in all Fhirdiad who would shout across a ballroom. And it wasn’t hard to pick him out of the crowd. Sylvain Jose Gautier, the Count of Beaumont, strode towards them, resplendent in his perfectly tailored evening wear. Ingrid knew his suit must be the very latest in men’s fashion not because she knew anything about it, but because she knew he would never be caught in anything less. And it was certainly flashy: a blue waistcoat, a coat scandalously cropped at his waist, a bow tie where most other men in the room wore elaborate knotted cravats.

“Fraldarius!” Sylvain cried, grabbing Glenn’s hand and forcing him to relinquish Ingrid in the process. “I’ve just arrived. Tell me, what’s the latest? Who’s the mama to avoid tonight? And the debutante to pursue?”

Before Glenn could answer any of those questions, Sylvain faced Ingrid. His eyes sparkled as he looked her over and bestowed his approval with a satisfied nod.

“Lady Ingrid,” he murmured. He took her hand and brushed the back of her glove with his lips. “A pleasure, as always.”

Ingrid snatched her hand away. “Don’t be stupid, Syl—Lord Beaumont. I know perfectly well you’re never pleased to see me.”

Sylvain glanced at Glenn, one eyebrow raised. “I don’t know how you could think such a thing,” he said. “I regard you as one of the very best women of my acquaintance. And I know a lot of women.”

Ingrid rolled her eyes.

“Certainly the best of the debutantes!” Sylvain added quickly.

“You know perfectly well that I am not a debutante.”

“For the way in which you surpass them all in beauty, you may as well be.”

“Pish,” Ingrid said. “I can’t believe you’re flirting with me. There are plenty of other women worthy of your attention, surely. At least half a dozen in our immediate vicinity.”

“None so fierce as you,” Sylvain shot back.

Glenn guided Ingrid’s hand back to his arm. “It’s a little crass to flirt with your best friend’s betrothed, don’t you think, Beaumont?”

Sylvain blinked. Something fluttered across his face, one of those infrequent cracks in his mask. Like the ones that Ingrid had witnessed before—when his brother deserted, when his father had told him he was worthless in front of her and Felix and Dimitri—it was too fast for her to decipher.

“The deed’s been done, then” he said. There was something off about his tone, something sad. Then the strangeness abruptly disappeared and he grabbed Glenn’s hand. “Congratulations! I’ve not spoken the best of the institution in the past, but I honestly do wish you all the best. If anyone can make an honest go of it, it’s you two.”

“Thank you,” Glenn laughed. “Although, you’d best keep it mum for now. Nothing’s been exchanged yet and I’m sure Mother will wish to announce it at a ball or some such nonsense.”

“Her Grace does enjoy a party,” Sylvain replied, his eyes searching the room though his head didn’t move. “Well, I’d best be off.”

“Where to?” Ingrid asked.

She regretted her words the moment Sylvain’s gaze fell on her. He raised an eyebrow, a clue that he’d caught her meaning. Then he relaxed his shoulders, crossed his arms. Adjusted his behaviour to be friendly, but wary.

“Where but to dance?” he said lightly. “Are we not at a ball?”

“Dance with whom?”

Sylvain forced a laugh. Ingrid knew him well enough to pick the difference, as did Glenn, who tugged on her arm.

“I imagine most of the lovely ladies in the room,” he said, spreading his arms. “But not you. Glenn might count that as crass.”

Glenn loosened his hold on Ingrid. “I did not mean…” he began.

“You’ve not settled at all, have you?” Ingrid said, cutting across him.

Sylvain looked from her to Glenn, then down to where her hand rested on the sleeve of Glenn’s jacket.

“Married, you mean?” he said. Then he shrugged. “Come on, Ingrid, you know that’s not me. I’m a confirmed bachelor.”

“There’s no such thing,” Ingrid scoffed. “You simply will not accept your place.”

“You mean like you?”

The words were worse than a slap to the face. Ingrid released Glenn’s arm and took a step to the left, away from him. He frowned at her.

“Ingrid?” he said cautiously. “Are you okay? Can I get you a lemonade?”

Ingrid raised her eyes, and in the process caught the look of disgust that whipped across Sylvain’s face. _And that_ was like a knife in her heart. For Sylvain to so openly despise her at a ball, at Kyphon Hall, at the house of her future _husband’s_ mother…

“I am well,” Ingrid said to Glenn with a smile.

With those words, she could almost convince herself that she was. Speaking things aloud was a powerful medicine. With words, she could mould reality into her preferred shape. They were useful for that.

But Sylvain, as always, saw right through them.

“Forgive me,” he said, shifting uncomfortably. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

Ingrid shook her head. “I have not taken offence, Lord Beaumont. You are right. Everyone has the right to live their life in the way that they choose. Even if it is in a way so as to destroy it, as you seem peacefully content to do.”

“That’s not fair,” he countered, thrusting his hand through the air in front of him, as though to strike out the statement. “I’m not destroying my life. In fact, most men admire me. I’ve no responsibilities, no obligations—”

“No happiness—”

“—no restraints,” Sylvain finished, a little louder.

Ingrid smiled. “Then you don’t deny it.”

“Ingrid,” Glenn interjected.

“No, Fraldarius,” Sylvain said, holding up a hand. “Your betrothed is quite right. Happiness. Yes, Ingrid, perhaps happiness eludes me. But really, nothing in life has taught me it is necessary for survival.”

“And that’s what you do?” Ingrid said. “You survive?”

Sylvain opened his mouth, but a loud burst of laugh cut across his reply. He grimaced and turned his head towards the sound. Ingrid followed the line of his gaze to a group of people in a far corner. At their centre was a man she didn’t recognise. His dark brown hair was punctuated with a coloured scarf, a style favoured by airship captains. He waved his hands wildly through the air as he spoke to the enraptured audience surrounding him.

“Claude von Riegan,” Glenn explained, breaking the interlude. “He arrived in Fhirdiad two days ago. Father met him at the club and thought to invite him here tonight to meet the ranks.”

“An airship captain? Air force?” Sylvain asked.

“No. He’s part of a private venture, merchant I believe? It runs out of Derdriu.”

Sylvain snorted. “Isn’t that a little lower class for a Fraldarius ball?”

The corner of Glenn’s mouth lifted in the way it did when he wanted to let Sylvain know that he was merely tolerating him.

“Watch your mouth. Lord Claude von Riegan, Count of Derdriu.”

Ingrid looked at the stranger with new eyes. The head of a household and the captain of an airship?

“No,” Sylvain swore.

“Yes,” Glenn responded. “You know the Alliance. They do nobility differently to us. Ingrid?”

Belatedly, Ingrid realised that she had been drifting towards Lord Derdriu, drawn across the dancefloor by the promise of the tales he might tell. She quickly dropped back beside Glenn.

“At least do your betrothed the courtesy of marrying him before you start chasing after other men,” Sylvain quipped. And although his tone was light, the words were pointed. Ingrid felt a blush rise in her cheeks, equal in strength to the sting in her chest.

“Might you introduce me to the captain?” Ingrid asked Glenn, looking at him instead of Sylvain, eager to avoid any further teasing.

Glenn frowned. “I myself have not yet been introduced to him.”

Sylvain laughed. “Isn’t this your party? I think you can belay the niceties.”

“I do not think it is your place to lecture me on civility, Beaumont.”

“Why? Because I lost to you in baccarat last night?”

Ingrid’s eyebrows shot up. Sylvain laughed again, a more bitter tone to the sound.

“That’s right,” he said. “Even your perfect Lord Fraldarius is susceptible to a round of cards. He’s quite good too. If he ever burns through that fortune, he’ll be able to take care of you from his winnings.”

Glenn’s eyes widened as he frowned at Sylvain.

“What has gotten into you tonight?” he demanded.

Ingrid tugged on Glenn’s arm as something dark crossed Sylvain’s face again.

“Please,” she said, “it’s so rare to meet an airship captain at these events. Let’s join the circle at least.”

Glenn nodded. He put his hand over hers and led her across the room. When she glanced back, just for a moment, she saw Sylvain watching them with a furrowed brow, his fist tapping against his leg almost violently.

“You mustn’t let Beaumont get to you,” Glenn said when they were at a safe distance.

“I know,” Ingrid sighed. “But he’s infuriating. How he behaves is nothing short of childish.”

Glenn smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. 

“Things aren’t easy for him. He deals with them the best way he knows how.”

Ingrid bit her lip. She knew that. She had always known that. An older brother on the run, a grief-stricken, angry father, a spelt-out future in the House of Lords...it was a cursed situation.

“Should I apologise?” she asked, prepared to turn immediately and go back. But to her surprise, Glenn shook his head.

“Come on,” he said. “I’ll introduce you to Lord Derdriu.”

_~An Airship Captain~_

The closer Ingrid and Glen came to the circle surrounding Lord Derdriu, the harder it became to see him. The crowd was larger than it had looked from across the room, made up of all sorts of people from across the spectrum of society, all enthralled by the tales of a man both count and airship captain. Although some of Faerghus’s upper classes held commissions in the air force, for a person to be a noble, merchant airship captain was utterly unheard of. Unthinkable.

At the circle’s edge, Ingrid let go of Glenn’s arm to try and make a study of the newcomer by looking over people’s shoulders. But her efforts to get a better view were disappointing. The crowd was too interested in Lord Derdriu’s story to pay attention to her, a nobody moving at the edge of the circle.

“...it was at that point that I realised she was not the man’s sister at all, but his daughter,” the count was saying. “They had lied to me for the entire journey, posing as siblings. To this day I still don’t fully understand the reason for their deception. Perhaps—”

The man standing in front of Ingrid suddenly shifted. With her line of sight cleared, her gaze immediately met with that of Lord Derdriu. He paused in his tale, regarding her with curiosity. Ingrid felt her breath catch as the corners of his lips rose into a mischievous smile.

“—they were felons, wanted by the law, using my ship as an escape route to Zanado and freedom,” Lord Derdriu shrugged, eyes remaining on Ingrid. “That is the only conclusion I can draw.”

The people around Ingrid seemed to deflate, like the air balloons in Prince’s Park after the morning joy-rides.

“Did you ever see them again?” asked someone in the crowd. Ingrid didn’t have the wherewithal to see who, too overwhelmed by Lord Derdriu’s study of her. To be singled out by someone of his description was thrilling. On the few occasions when Ingrid had been fortunate enough to meet with an airship captain outside her regular circles, she had been mostly ignored.

“No,” Lord Derdriu said shortly.

He took a step forward. The circle of people parted, allowing him through, as clean as a ship cutting through the clouds. Ingrid glanced towards Glenn, who just smiled at her, amused, and turned back in time to place her hand into Lord Derdriu’s outstretched one. He bent in a graceful bow, keeping his attention on her face as he kissed the back of her hand.

Glenn cleared his throat. “Lord Derdriu, I am Lord Glenn Fraldarius.”

Lord Derdriu straightened and smiled brightly at Glenn.

“Claude von Riegan, at your service,” he said.

Glenn blinked. “A pleasure,” he replied slowly, as though trying to comprehend the abrupt surrender of the count’s familiar name. “This is Lady Ingrid Brandl Galatea.”

Lord Derdriu turned back to Ingrid. His hand was warm around hers, having not surrendered it after the customary kiss.

“A pleasure,” he said, eyes twinkling. “I saw you across the room, my lady, and found myself enthralled. I am honoured that you see fit to grace me with your presence.”

Ingrid barely held in her groan. It was so unlikely that he was telling the truth that it was ridiculous—he was another flirt, as incorrigible as Sylvain.

“I hear you are an airship captain,” she said, trying to stem the tide of her disappointment, as well as prevent Glenn’s suddenly guarded expression from growing any worse.

Lord Derdriu raised an eyebrow with an air of practised perfection.

“You won’t be reduced to talk of the dance?” he asked.

Ingrid freed her hand from Lord Derdriu’s grip. “I have been reading about the recent improvements to the air compression engine,” she said.

There was a beat of silence. That was all it took for Lord Derdriu’s flirtatious expression to disappear, for him to look at her, truly look at her. Not as a frustrating tag-along, as a childhood friend, as a prospect on the marriage mart, as the saviour of a family. He looked at her as an equal, as someone worthy of her time.

Her heart thudded as she realised there was only one other person who had regarded her in that way before.

Lord Derdriu crossed his arms over his chest. “You refer to the experiments in the Empire under the guidance of Prime Minister Ferdinand von Aegir?” he said quickly.

This time, he spoke without any hint of flirtation. Ingrid smiled, as Glenn likewise relaxed beside her.

“What is your opinion on them?” she asked the count.

Lord Derdriu lifted his shoulders. “It’ll never happen. Air compression engines aren’t strong enough to propel an aircraft larger than a buggy. You’d never achieve any decent speed. And they are too expensive to produce.”

“Although the cost of production is high,” Ingrid replied, “over time it would amount to less than the repeated purchase of coal. And Lord Hevring is already suggesting improvements that will allow for the engine to be attached to larger aircrafts.”

“It won’t be adopted if I can reach my destination faster on a horse.”

“But you must admit their results are promising.”

“Yes, well,” Lord Derdriu said with a laugh, “the Adrestians will do anything to avoid reliance on another sentient being. And no wonder. If I were Aegir’s horse, I would have thrown him as well.”

The eruption of appreciative laughter around them reminded Ingrid that they were in the middle of a ballroom, with a crowd eagerly listening. Glenn alone was unmoved by the joke, frowning instead and drawing Ingrid towards him with a light touch on her sleeve. He had acquaintances in the Adrestian court, some of them good friends. But the wider Faerghus nobility were always happy to jest at the expense of their southern neighbours. The public opinion of the empire was too deeply antagonistic.

Ingrid tapped her fan against her leg, watching as Lord Derdriu grinned, nodding acceptance of their audience’s amusement. He knew how to play a room. She couldn’t decide if that made him less trustworthy or more. After all, a person who could play to a crowd was more likely to be able to get one out of a distasteful situation.

Like marriage.

Ingrid suppressed a shiver, while Lord Derdriu brought his hands together and offered her and Glenn a bow.

“Forgive me,” he said. “Forgive me, Lord Fraldarius. You are clearly in earnest. Shall we find a quieter corner, Lady…?”

He trailed off. It took Ingrid a moment to realise what he was searching for.

“Oh! Lady Ingrid,” she said.

Lord Derdriu glanced at Glenn. “Faerghus is a strange nation,” he said. “Men are referred to by their honorary title, but not women?” He fixed his attention back on Ingrid. “Are you not the only member of your family that bears a Crest?”

The crowd bristled as one. Glenn’s grip on Ingrid’s arm tightened suddenly and she turned her head to see him glance across the faces of the crowd, making the fast judgments she and all her friends had all been taught to make as children. He would recognise the minute signs—the sharp intakes of breath, the knit brows—that indicated the change in attitude, the anger towards Lord Derdriu. He was trying to find a way to prevent his mother’s party from turning hostile.

Ingrid grabbed Lord Derdriu’s arm.

“Will you walk me to the supper room?” she asked.

Lord Derdriu looked at her quizzically, then at Glenn. To Ingrid’s great relief, Glenn gestured for them to go ahead. With the permission of her escort, Lord Derdriu said softly, “It would be my pleasure.”

When they were in the hallway, away from the masses and protected from the attention of gossips, Lord Derdriu drew Ingrid closer, trapping her hand in the space between his torso and his arm. She moved to protest, until he whispered, “I upset the old bats, didn’t I? They don’t like their hypocrisy pointed out to them.”

Ingrid frowned at him, then shook her head upon seeing his smirk. He had known exactly what he was doing back.

“Why else would I abandon Lord Fraldarius?” she said. “Someone had to make sure you weren’t thrown out.”

Lord Derdriu chuckled. “You couldn’t wait to get away from him.”

Ingrid snatched her arm back. “Don’t be ridiculous!” she snapped.

“No need to protest so adamantly,” Lord Derdriu said, his tone softening as he held up his hands in surrender. “And don’t worry. I won’t expose you to Lord Fraldarius. I’m good at spotting like souls, and I know that you are as uncomfortable in that ballroom as I am.”

He offered his hand in the manner of the Alliance. Ingrid stared at it, startled. She had always been fond of the handshake and its status as a greeting between equals. So much better than the Faerghan bow, with its dependence on social standing and occasion and the time of day.

“Call me Claude,” Lord Derdriu said.

“That would be improper,” Ingrid replied, hand clenched around her fan.

“Then let’s even out the impropriety, shall we? Since they won’t let me call you by your honorary title as your family’s Crest holder, which I happen to know is Daphnel—of the Faerghan line, of course—I’ll call you Ingrid.”

A chill rushed through Ingrid at his presumption. She turned from him and his hand, continuing along the hall towards the supper room.

“Tell me about your ship,” she said. “I presume from our earlier discussion that it is steam propelled.”

“You are correct,” Claude said, falling into pace beside her. “It’s a small ship, really. I run a crew of seven, myself included.”

“Then you do drive it yourself?”

“Of course! Where’s the fun in letting others do it?” Claude crossed his arms and hummed as they passed Lord Gideon. When they were at a safe distance, he added, “But honestly, that isn’t even the best part.”

“What is?” Ingrid asked. She couldn’t think of anything that would surpass being at the helm of an airship, nothing but sky before her.

“Leaving,” Claude said. “That ship is my freedom. There are so many rules here in Fódlan. I mean, different rules, to the ones I know. It’s exhausting. But in the air, none of that matters. It’s above, beyond society. So whenever I’m tired of it all, I can load my ship and fly away. To another land, somewhere new, Morfis, Brigid...anywhere.”

“Brigid?” Ingrid repeated.

“Yes, Brigid,” Claude laughed as he opened the supper room door for her. “Why don’t you come with me next time?”

The question stirred excitement in her. The promise of new places and things to see—things that she dared not hope for.

“Oh, I could never.”

“Why not?”

Ingrid opened her mouth to respond, then closed it again. She halted short of the supper table. The heads of the diners turned towards her.

“Surely there’s nothing holding you here,” Claude said, coming up beside her. “I know you believe I was flattering you earlier, but I was being honest. You look meant for something more than a ballroom. I’d wager that, in a different life, a different time and place, you would be a force to be reckoned with. Why are you hiding behind all these rules, the frills and follies of a society designed to keep people from achieving their dreams?”

A server hovered nearby, waiting for them to be seated. The people at the tables, barons and earls and marchionesses and viscountesses, were beginning to murmur. She and Claude were taking too long, lingering in the centre of the room, standing, exposed.

“It’s not that simple,” Ingrid said, hoping to end the conversation.

“Isn’t it?” Claude replied thoughtfully. He stepped up to the closest table and pulled out a chair. “You’re the kind of person who could use an adventure. So you know what? I’m extending you an invitation to join me on my ship. What do you say?”

Ingrid felt the eyes of everyone in the room on her as she wavered there with the Lord of Derdriu’s disarming smile directed straight at her, his hand gesturing to the seat of the chair. Giving her a choice. Allowing her to decide whether to sit or walk away.

Lord Derdriu smirked.

“Lady Daphnel?” he questioned.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! As per so many of my fics right now, this will be a little slow on the updates until other things in my life get a bit more organised. But there will be more! Don't forget to check out [LTNLitten9's amazing artwork](https://twitter.com/LTNlitten9/status/1356521830715068416?s=20) to accompany this story (she's drawn them all so well!). A big thank you to them for being a great partner, and also to my fabulous beta emiwaka29, as always.
> 
> Stay safe!


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